


The Worst Nights

by 1FrozenRutabaga



Category: Mystery Skulls, Mystery Skulls Animated
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I needed more Uncle Lance, Medication, Mentions of Lewis, Mentions of Vivi, Sleep Deprivation, There's not enough of him, phantom limb syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 23:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16586129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1FrozenRutabaga/pseuds/1FrozenRutabaga
Summary: Lance does his best to comfort Arthur in a fevered, phantom pain delirium.





	The Worst Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I promised a treat, so I giveth.
> 
> It's very late. I just wrote this. I'm incredibly tired and resisting the urge to eat shredded cheese out of the fridge.

No one wanted to see the person they cared most about in pain. They didn’t want to see their loved one writhing in agony or crying uncontrollably with the only solution being to wait out the storm. They didn’t want to stand there and be useless, their only ability to help coming in murmured words and gentle strokes over hair. The worst pain someone could go through was seeing the center of their universe suffering, that they could do nothing but watch the star struggle to keep from burning out.

Arthur had been crying for nearly an hour.

Lance wasn’t blind to his nephew’s health. Along with the loss of Arthur’s arm came other problems, but Lance had a sneaking suspicion that it had more to do with what caused the arm to be torn from his body. He had watched, practically helpless, as Arthur began to deteriorate into the shadows. Weight was dropped like rocks, the once light crescents beneath the dark tangerine eyes became bruises on his paling skin. Arthur became jumpy and scared of sudden sounds, would grab his arm when he was frightened.

Arthur had now been crying for an hour.

Phantom limb syndrome was something Lance had heard of, but he never knew the symptoms or how bad they got. The doctors had told him that Arthur was going to be prone to that for most likely the rest of his life, there being no cure for nerves continuing to try and do their jobs. Along with the syndrome came painkillers and sleep aids _more sleep aids_ and tips for physical therapy. Lance had taken them with an almost naive mind.

Waking up to his nephew screaming, seeing the boy _because he would always be a boy_ sobbing and wailing like a wounded fox, washed the nativity away bleaching the spots each time he found Arthur in that state. There was no room for that emotion in Lance’s world _it never had been_ when it came to Arthur.

Getting Arthur to take his medicine had swiftly become tedious. The boy refused to take them most of the time, said he deserved the pain, but never gave the reason why. He would ignore his sleep aids, work on that damn arm and other things for sunrise after sunrise. That Yukino girl _Vivi it wasn’t hard to remember the name of Arthur’s only two friends_ had slipped Lance tips; dropping them in light coffee, sneaking them into a thick sandwich. Arthur would be furious when he woke up, he always was, but Lance had begun to see the quiet fear behind the dark tangerine eyes, so he switched to coaxing instead.

Sometimes the phantom pain would power through the pills and aids, Arthur becoming delirious with agony and nightmares, and those were the worst nights.

It was one of those nights.

Having Arthur’s head in his lap reminded Lance of the younger days, the better ones, but the illusion was always broken by the sobbing. The remaining hand his nephew had was fisting the sheets, fingers twitching. His body writhed weakly. His breaths came in short, choked pants, eyes wild and skin wet with sweat.

And Lance could do nothing but hush, pet, and try to keep Arthur’s attention on him.

“Make it stop,” Arthur rasped. “Please, make it stop.”

Lance let out a defeated sigh, stroking the dark marigold locks. “I wish I could,” he said, heart aching. “I wish I could.”

The arm had been torn off, like someone with incredible strength and no soul had just grabbed and pulled. Arthur said he didn’t remember, but Lance knew, knew, that it was a lie, but he never pressed. Maybe Arthur didn’t say because he knew whoever did it, maybe it was because he truly didn’t know. Lance didn’t care who it was; they would be dead the moment he saw them for ruining his boy’s life.

“Please,” the younger whimpered again. “I’m sorry.”

"Nothing do apologize for, Artie,” Lance told him _the nickname was rare usually reserved for these nights_. He had to resist the urge to pat the boy’s shoulder. “Just focus on me.”

“I killed him,” Arthur cried. He let out a sharp whine: another spasm. “I killed him.”

Lance had gotten acquainted with Arthur’s feverish ramblings. Arthur went on about how he had killed the Pepper boy, how he was possessed and was forced to push Lewis off a cliff. Sometimes Arthur would cry out the boy’s name _Lewis I’m so sorry I’ll find you_ and try to leave to find him. Lance had dragged his delirious nephew out of the van and back to bed more than enough time; he started hiding the keys at night to stop it. Arthur would go on and on about finding Lewis’s spirit and bringing him home.

But Lance would always hush him. He didn’t believe in spirits and ghosts and whatever else that weird girl was into, so he certainly didn’t believe Arthur had killed the Peppers’ boy. Arthur, the one who got the only crippled hamster just to give the furball wheels. Arthur, the one who sang loudly in the shower to every stupid song in the book. Arthur, the one who still needed someone to kill a spider for him.

Arthur, the one that lost his arm to those insane and childish ghost hunts.

Lance remembered Lewis pretty well. The boy had been built, tall and strong, and that was the exact reason why Lance knew Arthur hadn’t killed him. There was no way in hell that a scrawny wimp like Arthur could push a guy like Lewis off a damn cliff. Possessed or not, it just wasn’t possible. Maybe the kid fell and Arthur had been there to see it, but Lance knew that Arthur hadn’t killed anyone.

He just wished Arthur could snap out of his fever to tell someone where the damn body was.

“’s gone, it’s gone,” the young man whispered frantically. “It’s there, but it’s gone.”

“It’s gone, Artie,” Lance told him, still stroking the sweaty locks of hair. “Been gone a while.”

“But…” Arthur swallowed roughly. Lance reckoned his throat was dry from crying and gasping for breath. “It’s still _there_.”

Lance wondered about slipping pills with meals again. The pills hadn’t gotten enough time to kick in by the time Arthur went down. “It’s gone,” the older man repeated, his voice empty of its usual gruffness. “Nothing there anymore, Artie.”

And because Arthur was too far gone to truly understand, he went back to crying and begging for the pain to stop.

It would go on for a few hours, Lance had learned. These nights would last until morning, the drugs weaning and Arthur drained. Lance had learned how to be patient, how to stop shaking with powerlessness whenever Arthur had a fit. He had learned what to say and what not to say, how to tuck someone who nearly had a mental meltdown into bed without waking them. He had learned what areas let the liquid drugs course through faster when Arthur was out of pills or when he was exhausted to deal with the tears, that he was capable of feathery touch.

When morning came, when Arthur would be asleep until noon and Lance would go back to his bed to lie there until he got his appetite back, it would be like nothing ever happened. Arthur would barely remember any words, only the pain, but he would remember flashes. He would apologize to Lance for waking him up, ashamed and quiet, and Lance would brush it off like it had been a simple favor. Arthur would either leave on another “search” or stay in the shop to help his uncle, and Lance would go along with his day like he hadn’t just cradled his pained, adult nephew in his arms hours before.

But the nights would come again, and so would the worst ones. It was a damned cycle, one of misery and undeserved pain, and only one would be prepared to face it.

So Lance just continued to shush Arthur’s frenzied mutters, swearing to every god out there that he would kill the monster that maimed his boy.

**Author's Note:**

> I need more of these two.
> 
> Gonna go eat shredded colby cheese from the fridge, night.


End file.
